Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)(77)

51


Cyrus


HMP Nottingham is a Victorian Category B remand prison, built in the 1890s and modernised over the years with newer buildings that look like afterthoughts, squeezed into the available space. Prison reformers have long campaigned to have it shut down, calling it draconian and obsolete, but successive governments keep adding rather than subtracting to the numbers.

The reception area has regulations displayed on the walls, printed in different languages. No hats, scarves, hoodies, coats, jackets or gloves. No metal hair accessories, steel-capped shoes, ripped clothing, see-through tops, revealing blouses, miniskirts or short dresses. The banning of football shirts surprises me, but tribalism of any kind can be toxic in jail, where conflict must be dealt with before it boils over.

As I walk through the security check, the sniffer dog gives me a lazy wag of its tail. I am patted down by a separate guard, who makes me surrender my phone, watch and car keys, which are placed in a locker.

The visitors’ room has rows of tables and chairs evenly spaced apart. Somewhere, beyond these walls, a warder will be fetching Foley. I can picture him lying in a narrow cot, smelling the sourness of the air. The future is a scary business when you’re accused of abducting and killing a woman. I doubt if Foley has slept more than a few hours each night, jerked awake at every fart and belch and rattling cough.

A yellow light flashes on the wall and the first prisoner arrives. After ten seconds another is allowed to enter. Each visitor is permitted a quick hug or a handshake, but no other touching is allowed, before they are separated across a table.

Foley appears, scanning the room expectantly. There’s someone he hopes to see. It’s not me. His expression changes, and he swaggers to the table, bigging himself up in front of his fellow prisoners. He’s wearing prison-issue clothes, which are still creased from the packaging.

‘Who are you?’ he asks.

‘I’m a psychologist. Cyrus Haven.’

‘I don’t need a shrink.’

‘Maybe not, but you need a friend.’ I hold up open palms. ‘No notebooks. No wire. Just the two of us.’

‘Mano a mano,’ he says, his top lip curling. ‘Why should I talk to you?’

‘Your solicitor agreed to this …’

‘That useless bitch,’ he mutters. ‘I’ve been stitched up.’ He leans closer, speaking in a harsh whisper. ‘I didn’t kill that old man and I didn’t kidnap Maya Kirk. Somebody out there is laughing, you know, because they got away with it.’

‘You lied to the police.’

‘That doesn’t make me a killer.’

‘Did you drug Maya?’

‘Do I look that desperate? I can pull any bird I want.’

‘Is that why you write fake dating profiles?’

‘Everybody does that,’ he scoffs. ‘Women are the worst. Soft focus photographs, push-up bras, shapewear. You turn up expecting to meet Cinderella and you get the ugly stepsister. It’s a game.’

I take two photocopied pages from my pocket – the sketches that Evie helped prepare. I slide the first one across the table, showing the driver of the car.

‘Recognise him?’ I ask.

Foley grunts. ‘Prince Andrew? Harry Styles?’

I show him the second one.

‘That’s Paulie,’ he says.

‘How do you know him?’

‘During the summer, me and my mates play basketball Sunday mornings at Victoria Embankment. Paulie used to play, until we told him to leave.’

‘Why?’

‘We have a no-dickheads policy. You can invite someone to play and if he turns out to be a dickhead, he gets booted.’

‘And that was Paulie?’

‘Yeah, he took the game too seriously. He elbowed Gazza in the face. Broke his nose. Bled like a stuck pig.’

‘Who invited him to play?’

‘Gazza. Serves him right, eh?’ Foley grins.

‘Did you ever see Paulie socially, out and about, at pubs or clubs?’

‘Yeah. Occasionally.’

‘What about on the night you met Maya?’

Foley pauses and scratches his nose. ‘Would it help if I said yes?’

‘Only if it’s the truth.’

‘Why? What’s he done?’

‘He died today in a car crash.’

Foley doesn’t seem particularly concerned. I keep the drawings on the table, hoping for more.

‘How did Maya seem on your date?’ I ask.

‘OK. A bit up herself, but she chilled after a while.’

‘Who arrived first?’

‘She did.’

‘Anyone else talk to her, or buy her a drink?’

‘No.’

‘Anything unusual happen?’

‘Like what? I mean, Maya asked me to swap seats because she saw some guy she wanted to avoid.’

‘Did you see him?’

‘Nah.’

‘You said Maya was drunk. How much did she have?’

‘Only three drinks, but she was slurring and swaying. That’s why I offered to take her home.’

‘When you left the last bar, was anyone hanging around – someone who might have been following her?’